PER  ASPERA 
AD  ASTRA 


PER  ASPERA 
AD    ASTRA 


A    COLLECTION  OF  POEMS 


BY 


ALEXANDRA  VON  HERDER 


NEW  YORK 
ROBERT  GRIER  COOKE,  INCORPORATED 

1907 


Copyright  1907  by  Robert  Grier  Cooke,  Inc. 

All  rights  reserved. 
Entered   at  Stationers'   Hall,   London. 


3S-/3 


To  T.  de  Gunthe 

On  the  dawn  of  the  day  of  your  marriage, 

Others  will  bring  you  their  gold, 
Their  jewels,  their  gems  and  their  silver  — 

My  hands  this  book  only  hold, 
This  fragment  —  but  suffer  its  pages 

To  mirror  the  light  of  your  soul, 
And  the  greatest  of  human  treasures 

Will  gild  and  transfigure  the  scroll. 


626154 


INDEX. 

ASPERA 

MARCUS  AURELIUS  ON  His  DEATH  BED  IN  THE 
ROMAN  CAMP  AT  VINDOBONA,  DURING  His 
CAMPAIGN  AGAINST  THE  MARCOMANS,  MARCH, 
A.  D.,  180  .  .  .  .  .  ...  .  .  .17 

NOTE  TO  POPE  CELESTINE  V.      .      ,  .21 

POPE  CELESTINE  V .      .      .22 

A   WOMAN'S   FACE 25 

THE  WRECK  OF  THE  "ADEN"       ......  26 

SUNSET  OFF  SANDY  HOOK  ......     27 

SEA  NOCTURNE        .........  28 

How  SHALL  WE  LIVE? 29 

PRAYERS      .  30 

THE  SHADOW  ON  THE  DIAL 31 

BIRTH   THROE 32 

RETRO  ME  HOMINE  ........      33 

NOCTURNE   .      ^    .      . 34 

REGRET 35 

Cui   BONO 36 

FOR    A    LITTLE 37 

AMONG  THE  FLOWERS  .      .      .      .     ..      .      .      .  38 

STAR    SONG 39 

THE  LAST  TREK   .  .  40 


ASTRA 

CATHOLICITY         45 

THE  SOLITARY  COLUMN  OF  KARNAK  .      .      .      .46 

THE  CENTRAL  ALTAR  IN  THE  TEMPLE  OF  HEAVEN 
PEKING 47 

AN   ATLANTIC  LINER 48 

MOUNT  EVEREST  .      .      .      ....      .      .      .  49 

THE   DESERT     .      .      .  •  •  „      .      ...      .  .  50 

THE    RAIN    CLOUD    .........  51 

THE   SUNSET   CLOUD   .     ,.      /     .      ...      .  .52 

SANCTUARY     .      .      .      ...:.«      ,      .      .  53 

RESURRECTION    .      .      .    •'•„      .      .      .      .      .  .54 

EVOLUTION ......  55 

BENEDICITE   VER .      .      .  .56 

SPRING .     .  x  .     >      .  57 

BIRDS     .      .      .     ,      .     .      .      .      ,     .      .  .58 

SUMMER    HARVEST    .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .  59 

Sic    TRANSIT    .      .      .      .      .      .      . '  ^ .      .  .60 

THOUGH  IT  BE  DEATH  .      .      ...      .      .  61 

To   A    YOUNG    GIRL    .      .     ".     ...     .  .  62 

To    RUTH '.      .      .  '    .      .  63 

IMMORTALITY                                                       .  .  64 


ASPERA 


Marcus  Aurelius  on  His  Death  Bed  in  the  Roman 

Camp  at  Vindobona,  during  His  Campaign 

against  the  Marcomans,  March,  A.  D.,  180 

Draw  close  the  curtains  of  my  tent — they're  cold 

Those  cruel  winds  of  March.     How  is  it  with  me? 

Disease  enthrals  me  wholly  and  there  is  that 

Within  me  whispers    death  itself  is  close 

At  hand.     What,  tears?     Nay,  nay  that  is  rebellion 

Against  a  greater  prince  than  I.     If  He, 

Who  sent  me  here,  now  bids  me  go,  what  cause 

Is  there  for  sorrow?     Let  Him  be  satisfied — 

What  would  ye  more?    Ye  murmur  that  He  called 

Too  soon!      How  should  ye  know?     Is  mortal  man — 

Who  in  the  boundless  stretch  of  time  discerns 

But  one  small  point,  the  time  that  is ;  who  owns 

No  magic  spell  wherewith  to  bind  the  least 

Swift  second  of  the  past,  no  vision's  breadth 

Wherewith  to  scan  the  mighty  aeons  still 

Unborn ;  who,  hardly  longer  than  t'wixt  dawn 

And  sunset  crawls  out  life  upon  the  clod, 

The  narrow  clod  he  calls  his  world, — is  he 

Fit  arbiter  of  what  is  truly  termed 

"Too  soon  or  late"?     It  is  the  will  of  Fate 

To  set  a  term  to  whatsoever  once 

Began ;  Death  is  the  common  lot  of  all, 

As  natural  as  birth  and  growth,  less  strange, 

Less  terrible  than  life.     What  room  were  there 

For  youth,  if  age  endured  for  ever?    Men  die 

So  that  mankind  may  live.    Mark  well  the  book 

Of  Nature.     Does  it  not  show  the  breaking  wave 

Dissolve  without  a  sigh  upon  the  shore, 

The  rose  shed  silently  its  purple  crown, 

The  ripened  olive  drop    unmurmuring 

Unto  the  ground ;   and  these  are  soulless  things. 

Shall  man    who  has  a  soul  to  comprehend, 

Whose  spirit  is  akin  to  God's,  alone 

Revolt  against  the  universal  scheme? 

Consider,  too,  how  little  happiness 

Mere  length  of  days  adds  to  the  mind.    I've  seen 

Men  rich  in  years,  so  poor  in  everything 

That  lendeth  grace  and  worth  to  life,  they  moved 

My  heart  to  pity;    and  if  I  thus  perceived 

That  all  that  signifies  is  not  how  long, 

But  how  a  human  being  lives,  I  learnt 

As  well,  that  this  most  fragile  particle 

Of  mind  and  matter,  man,  whom  sixty  years 

17 


Of  fleeting  time  drain  dry  of  all  his  power, 

Was  scarcely  fashioned  to  endure  the  blaze 

Of  God's  Eternity.    Our  fear  of  death 

Is  but  an  appetite  for  longer  life, 

And  like  all  appetites  will  lead  astray 

When  uncontrolled  by  reason.    O  Universe, 

From  whom  all  things  proceed,  in  whom  they  all 

Subsist,  and  unto  whom  all  must  return, 

If  'tis  for  thy  good  that  I  yield  up  life, 

Let  no  one  murmur  at  my  death.     So  soon, 

The  mourners  are  as  still  and  cold  as  those 

They  wept  for  in  their  bitterness.     To-day 

I  die,  to-morrow  thou ;  and  shortly  all 

Who  ever  knew  us,  hating  us  or  loving, 

Are  vanished  like  a  little  smoke,  and  then 

This  beauteous  world,  in  which  we  laughed,  and  hoped 

And  toiled,  will  scarce  remember  where  our  graves 

Are  slowly  crumbling  into  dust.     My  God! 

That  cruel  pang  again.     How  fluently 

We  talk  of  sickness  and  calamity, 

While  all  is  well,  but  gripped  by  adverse  fate 

It  needeth  much  philosophy  to  repress 

The  cry  of  pain;  and  thou  art  weeping?     Still? 

Ah  Fronto,  noble  friend,  I  know  there  are 

Some  griefs,  to  which  the  loftiest  arguments 

Of  reason  seem  as  cold  a  consolation 

As  for  the  burdened  body  is  this  bleak 

Barbarian  land ;  and  lately — but  may  be 

My  body's  fever  bursting  bounds,  has  seared 

The  soul — a  doubt,  a  gnawing  doubt,  chill,  blank, 

Dissolving  as  the  autumnal  mists,   which  creep 

And  cling  among  these  marsh  girt  northern  woods, 

Has  overcast  my  inmost  thoughts, — a  doubt 

That  in  the  changeful  flux  of  Fate  all  things 

Not  always  alter  for  the  best,  that  man 

Is  to  the  great  Creative  Force  no  more 

Than  is  the  lump  of  clay  unto  the  potter, 

Who,  even  as  he  lists,  will  mould  of  this 

A  statue,  of  that  a  mean  and  paltry  jar, 

To  be  despised  or  honoured,  used  and  crushed 

To  pieces,  according  to  no  higher  law 

Than  the  accident  of  chance;  yea  that  our  soul 

Itself,  is  but  a  lightning  flash  of  reason 

Which,  for  an  instant,  burns  'midst  vortices 

Of  senseless  atoms,  lost  within  the  womb 

Of  night.     A  giddy  thought !    My  teachers  taught 

Not  so,  and  I  would  fain  still  twine  my  dreams 

Round  their  belief,  my  worship  round  their  altars, 

18 


Around  their  confidence  my  hopes ;  fain,  fain, 

But  that  I  fear  it  is  the  cowardice 

Of  weakness  thus  to  cling  to  hearsay  creeds, 

Instead  of  gazing  out  with  mine  own  eyes 

And  with  that  steadfast  boldness  which,  indeed, 

Is  the  only  real  reverence,  far  out 

Into  Creation's  Mystery.     How  oft 

I  tried  to  fill  the  silence,  wherewith  God 

Still  answers  man's  impatient  questionings, 

With  guidance  of  a  teacher's  voice — in  vain ! 

If  truth  demands,  we  must  unflinchingly 

Discard  beliefs,  which  strain  and  split  'neath  weight 

Of  fuller  knowledge,  yea  e'en  though  its  stern 

Command  destroy,  with  scarcely  a  regret 

For  their  lost  beauty,  all  those  sweet  illusions, 

Those  threads  of  golden  poetry,  that  hid 

And  bridged  the  dark  abyss  of  the  unknown. 

Yea,  truth  is  stern  and  pitiless,  but  who 

Shall  say  if,  in  the  centuries  to  come, 

When  less  constrained  by  blinding  use  and  custom, 

Mankind  shall  not  at  last  discern  how  far 

The  strong  perfection  of  reality 

Transcends  the  painted  beauty  of  its  dreams? 

Yea,  who  can  tell,  who  know?    All-seeing  God 

How  Thou  must  mock  or  pity  us !     I  prate 

Of  fuller  knowledge,  and  all  we  hold  is  scarce 

A  drop  out  of  Thy  boundless  ocean  that — 

With  most,   defiled   with   mud ;   stern   limits  set 

Unto  the  wisest  man's  researches ;  the  mind 

Of  Socrates  himself  imprisoned  close 

By  ignorance.     Laboriously  we  build 

Our  grave  philosophies,  as  children  pile 

Their  puny  heaps  of  sand  and  shells,  call  this 

A  palace,  that  a  fortress,  till  the  sea, 

With  one  lap  of  a  lazy  wave,  wipes  all 

Away  and  makes  the  children's  playground  blank 

And  level  as  before.     Let  us  not  boast 

Then  of  a  certitude  beyond  the  reach 

Of  finite  mind,  but  humbly  walk,  with  brow 

Serene  and  steady  foot,  the  path  we  know 

Is  good,  the  path  of  virtue  and  of  truth. 

To  tread  that  path  is  all    the  God  within 

Demands  of  us ;  not  to  be  there,  in  life 

Or  death,  the  only  evil    which   subdues 

The  soul  of  man ;  and  walking  thus,  as  on 

We  move   from  deepest  night  to  glimmering  dawn, 

Some  time  perhaps,  for  some  of  us  the  clouds 

Will  lift  and  through  their  broken  multitudes 

19 


Will  burst  the  grand  Apocalypse  of  God! 

Ah,  not  for  me.    My  part  is  done  for  ever — 

That  pain  again — its  work  now  is  soon  ended. 

Let  no  one  importune  the  Gods  with  prayers 

For  my  recovery.     Behold  I  die 

A  royal  death  at  duty's  foremost  post 

Of  danger,  combating  my  country's  foes. 

I'm  weary,  friends ;  my  soul,  like  to  a  bird 

Upon  the  threshold  of  dim  Night,  would  close 

Its  quivering  wings  and  hush  its  wealth  of  music 

Within  the  silence  of  untroubled  rest. 

Greet    Rome,  my  Rome,  for  me    when  you  return 

To  her  from  banishment,  yea,  greet  her  well, 

And  tell  her  how  a  Stoic  Emperor  dies. 


Note  to  Pope  Celestine  V. 

Celestine  V.  was  Pietro  the  son  of  a  peasant  of  Southern 
Italy.  At  the  age  of  twenty  he  had  joined  the  order  of  the 
Benedictines,  and  later  retired  into  the  mountains  of  Apulia, 
where  he  lived  with  a  few  other  hermits  who  afterwards 
called  themselves  Celestines.  In  1294  when  he  was  already 
quite  an  old  man  his  solitude  was  broken  into  by  cardinals 
and  archbishops  requesting  him  to  exchange  his  hermit  cell 
for  the  papal  throne.  He  refused  at  first,  but  when  Charles 
II.  of  Naples  and  Andrew  III.  of  Hungary  joined  their  en 
treaties  to  those  of  the  cardinals,  he  consented  to  accept  the 
Tiara.  He  was,  however,  profoundly  unhappy  in  his  new 
surroundings,  and  after  a  little  over  two  years,  disgusted 
with  the  worldliness  and  intrigues  rampant  at  the  papal 
court,  he  resigned  and  fled  back  to  his  Apulian  Mountain 
solitude.  But  his  successor,  Boniface  VIII.,  fearing  a  schism, 
caused  him  to  be  arrested  and  thrown  into  prison,  where  he 
died  on  the  19th  of  May,  1294,  at  the  age  of  eighty-one. 


21 


Pope  Celestine  V. 

Ah,  take  it  hence;  release  me  from  this  crown, 

Which  with  its  treble  weight  of  Earth  and  Heaven 

And  Hell  in  never  opening  circles  binds 

My  brow.    Remove  it  quite !     My  eyes  are  dim 

With  gazing  on  the  pageantry  of  life 

For  fuller  length  of  years  than  frail  mortality 

Can  fitly  bear.     My  weary  footsteps  faint 

'Neath  honours  heaped  upon  me,  honours  borne 

So  badly  they  have  turned  to  bitter  shame. 

Yet  Lord!     Thou  knowest  that  I  sought  them  not. 

Not  mine  the  fierce  ambition    that  devours 

And  goads  still  upward  over  wrecks  of  loves, 

And  dreams  and  friendships  till  the  topmost  rung 

Is  reached,  whence  gazing  down  the  world  appears 

The  toy,  the  passive  plaything  of  one  being 

Intoxicated  with  applause.     Not  mine 

The  hunger  for  the  sunshine  of  this  world, 

Its  blaze  of  pomp  and  power,  wealth,  renown. 

I  loved  the  cool  sweet  shade  of  humble  life, 

Embowered  in  peace  and  solitude,  filled  full 

With  grace,  as  cup  of  violet  brims  with  dew. 

And  God  had  granted  my  desire.    The  deep 

Seclusion  of  monastic  vows  bound  fast 

The  placid  current  of  my  days,  which  knew 

No   other   change,   but   that   the   sunrise  breathed 

"Orate,"  and  the  star,  whose  tremor  crowns 

The  sunset  glow,  would  whisper  "Vigilate." 

I  never  dreamed  but  that  they  still  would  glide, 

Each  like  to  each  rounded  with  prayer,  smooth 

And  still  as  rosary  beads ;  would  glide  from  dawn 

To  night,  from  night  to  dawn,  in  sacred,  safe 

Monotony  even  to  the  longest  night 

Of  all.     O  vanity  of  human  thought ! 

Ye  came,  ye  whom  I  know  not,  ye  whom  hating 

I  never  could  have  hurt  as  ye  hurt  me. 

Ye  broke  the  silence  of  my  hermit's  cell 

With  clash  of  worldly  tongues  and  cares :    "Be  Pope ! 

"We  cardinals  have  chosen  thee."     I  heard, 

But  knowing  God  had  not  approved  the  choice, 

I  would  not  follow  at  your  call.     Then  kings 

Approached  and  knelt  before  me  in  the  dust; 

"Great  Anchorite,  we  know  thee  pure  and  just, 

"Without  a  stain.     The  Church  is  sick  for  dearth 

"Of  upright  men  like  thee.     Give  her  thy  strength ! 

"What  does  it  in  this  wilderness?     Like  gold, 

"The  miser  hides  and  hoards,   it  yields  mankind 

"No  fruit  of  joy.     The  Christian  world  hath  need 

22 


"Of  thee,  the  Christian  world -which  for  two  years 

"In  vain  has  clamoured  for  a  Pope."    With  these 

And  other  reasonings  they  overwhelmed 

My  hesitance,  until  perplexed,  I  half 

Believed  the  voice  of  God  spoke  with  their  tongues — 

I  yielded,  and  they  made  me  Pope.     Yea  Pope ! 

O  had  ye  known  what  force  for  good  or  ill 

Lies  in  that  name,  mayhap  ye  would  have  paused 

Before  ye  cast  it  thus  away.     Behold 

These  old  and  trembling  hands.    Was't  right  to  place 

Within  their  feeble  grasp  the  keys  of  Hell 

And  Heav'n?     Was't  just  to  call  a  helpless  man 

The  representative  of  Christ?     What  is 

This  thing  I  call  myself,  that  its  least  word 

To  multitudes  should  be  command,  as  though 

Decreed  by  God  Himself?     And  ye  who  flaunt 

That  rash  assumption,  know  full  well  ye  speak 

A  lie.     Do  ye  not  daily  seek  to  bend 

My  sovereign  power,  that  it  may  cringe  and  curve 

Along  the  dark  and  crooked  paths    which  lead 

Unto  the  satisfaction  of  your  own 

Ungodly  aims?     Blind  leaders  of  the  blind! 

My  soul  is  sick  with  all  this  gorgeousness 

Of  broidered  vestments,  jewelled  mitres,  clouds 

Of  incense,  crowds  of  officiating  priests 

Who  pray  but  for  their  own  advancement ;  chants 

And  services,  lip-services,  while  through 

Them  all,  the  spirit  starves,  the  famished  soul 

Faints  unto  death !     Are  ye  the  ministers 

Of  God,  ye  who  have  even  dared  debase 

Repentance  and  remission  of  men's  sins 

Into  a  market-thing  to  sell  and  buy? 

"And  what  of  that?    The  papal  treasury 

"Gets  filled.     The  world's  way." 

True,  perhaps,  but  I, 

Who  fled  the  world  in  unmarred  youth,  abhor 
These  ways    and  stumble  in  their  tangled  maze 
Of  crookedness.    O  God !     For  one  more  breath 
Of  thine  own  air  that  blows  with  strength  of  freedom 
Around  my  rock-bound  wilderness :     The  sun 
At_  this  last  parting  hour  will  flood  the  vale 
With  heavenly  light,  and  cast  a  radiant  halo 
Around  my  wooden  crucifix ;  and  then 
When  Night's  unbounded  stillness  hath  engulfed 
The  lesser  silence  of  the  day,  as  streams 
Are  lost  within  the  mighty  sea's  embrace, 
The  moon  will  rise  and  wed  her  virgin  beauty 
Unto  the  mountains'  majesty.     My  cell, 

23 


My  lonely  hermit's  cell,  my  eagle's  nest, 
Perched  up  so  high  above  the  valley's  clouds 
And  cares,  which  hears  no  sound  but  cry  of  birds, 
And  splash  of  crystal  torrents    bounding  down 
From  rock  to  rock — let  me  return,   O  take 
Me  back  unto  my  windswept  mountain  home, 
Back,  where  the  wearied  soul  can  think  and  pray ! 
Ye  shake  your  heads,  ye  frown — although  ye  need 
Me  not  nor  love.     Do  I  not  often  hear 
You  whispering  the  name  of  my  successor, 
Whom  everyone  of  you  in  secret  strives 
And  longs  to  be?    Vainhearted  fools!    I  tell  you, 
Sackcloth  should  be  the   Pope's  dalmatica, 
The  tiara  should  be  made  of  thorns,  that  men 
Like  yon,  agape  for  gold  and  glittering  pomp, 
Should  ne'er  crowd  into  offices    which  saints 
Alone  can  rightly  fill.     And  I,  no  saint : 
A  foolish,  weak  and  broken  man,  a  tree 
Transplanted  in  old  age,  which  needs  must  fall 
Because  it  cannot  strike  fresh  roots.     Well,  well — 
How  I  have  talked — the  shades  of  evening  thicken ; 
In  but  a  little,  night  outlines  with  black 
The  aureoles  of  the  holy  figures    limned 
Upon  the  chapel's  glass.     To  vespers  then, 
Lord   Cardinals,   to   vespers !     From  my  soul 
I'll  murmur :    Nunc  dimittis,  Lord,  O  Lord !" 


24 


A  Woman's  Face 

Angels  and  demons  once  fought  for  her  soul, 

Harvests  and  ruins  of  years  as  they  roll 
Fell  to  her  lot :    adoration  and  shame, 
Hunger  and  surfeit,  sting  of  frost  and  of  flame, 

Starkindled  dewdreams,  thunderbolt  flash, 

Rapturous  ecstasy,  scorpion-tongued  lash — 

Of  love  in  his  passion  lifted  and   caught  her, 
Life-force  possessed  her,  made  her  and  taught  her, 

Rent  her  and  spent  her !     Of  both  now  bereft, 

Desolate,  weary,  alone  she  is  left, 

Dull  as  the  stretch  of  the  waterless  shore. 
Whose  barren  sands  may  exult  never  more 

In  whisper  and  welter  and  salt  of  the  wave. 

Athwart  her  brow  blows  the  breath  of  the  grave, 
Cold  flows  her  blood  in  her  stiffening  veins, 
Pale  are  her  pleasures,  puny  her  pains, 

The  breast  is  withered,  the  hair  fallen  grey — 

But  the  eyes  remember  what  the  lips  may  not  say. 


25 


The  Wreck  of  the  "Aden" 

'Tis  upon  us  again,  the  force  of  the  wave, 
Foaming,  ferocious,  fathomless  grave ; 

Cling  for  bare   life  to  the  slippery  rail 

Bent  and  twisted  by  rage  of  the  gale, 
Above   us,   beneath   us,   the  bottomless   sea, 
Lord  God  of  tempests,  we  cry  unto  Thee. 

Thou  alone  O  Lord,  art  refuge  and  stay, 

The  winds  and  the  waves  Thy  power  obey, 

We  are  fainting  with  fear  and  horror  and  pain, 
Who  shall  escape  when  the  tide  comes  again? 

Destruction  looms  hideous,  our  strength  ebbs  away, 

Lord  God  of  tempests,  save  us  we  pray. 

We  are  Thy  children ;  Thou  madest  us ; 

Have  we  sinned  above  others,  to  perish  thus? 
The  billows  are  lashing  and  rending  the  deck, 
We  scarce  still  can  cling  to  the  quivering  wreck, 

Destroy  not  the  life  Thy  providence  gave, 

Lord  God  of  Tempests,  save  us,  O  save. 

Have  mercy  upon  us,  hear  us,  O  Lord, 
Victim  on  victim  is  swept  overboard, 

Struggles   an   instant,    shrieks    and   is   drowned. 

Haste  Thee  to  succour,  be  no  deaf  to  the  sound 
Of  prayers  for  help !     O  horrible  fear — 
There  is  no  God  in  the  billows  to  hear. 

Monstrous  they  roar,  hungry-mouthed,  cruel-lipped, 
Voracious  chasms  to  foampools  whipped : 

They  care  not,  they  know   not  whose  lifeblood   they 
spill ; 

O  mankind,  with  glory  of  reason  and  will, 
Art  thou  so  great  then?   Behold  the  blind  sea, — 
The  fringe  of  its  fury  annihilates  thee. 

Cease  then  from   prayer,  give  up  the  fight; 

Though  above  the  sea's  strength  rule  a  greater  might, 
Men  are  but  creatures  and  things  of  a  day, 
For  the  forces  of  nature  to  bring  forth  and  slay: 

Tarry  not,  take  us,  huge  bosomed  wave, 

Horrible,  world  wide,  beautiful  grave ! 


26 


Sunset  Off  Sandy  Hook 

A  bridge  of  gold 
Of  beauty  untold, 
Over  ripples  unrolled 
'Twixt  the  ship  and  the  shore. 

Over  ripples  just  foaming 
In  blue  of  the  gloaming, 
Through  which  we  are  roaming 
In  quest  of  the  shore. 

What  would  it  forebode 
To  the  wishes    which  goad 
Across  the  bleak  road 
From  cruel  home-shore? 

Are  the  waves  less  bitter, 
As  sunbeams  they  fritter 
To  sparkles    which  glitter 
On  bright  alien  shore? 

The  sparkles    which  mould 
The  lithe  bridge  of  gold 
For   Hope  to   unfold 
Her  flight  to  the  shore. 

But  the  bridge  is  so  frail, 
And  hope  is  so  pale, 
Will  she  not  fail 
Before  she  reach  shore? 


27 


Sea  Nocturne 

Stormclouds    lifting   and    drifting, 

Starlight  radiant  again, 
Only   away  to   the   leeward 

Dreariness,  dimness  of  rain. 

Waters  open  before  us, 

Folds  of  glimmering  white, 
Close — a    faint   hissing   of  bubbles, 
Broken,   submerged  in  the  night. 

Onward  from  shores  forgotten 

To  harbours  none  of  us  know 
We  move  'twixt  the  waves'  unfathomed 

And   the   stars'   unsearchable   flow. 

While  in  us  ideals  forsaken 

And  goals  obscured  arise, 
And  the  wail  of  the  whole  world's  sorrow 

Through  the  Wet,  through  the  Infinite  cries. 


How  Shall  We  Live? 

The  Birds: 

:'How   shall   we  live   O    Winter? 
We  filled  the  warm  depths  of  the  Summer 
With  resonance  of  our  songs ; 
We  caused  its  sunbeam-flooded  skies  to  kindle 
With    winnowing  of  new-born  wings; 
Abundantly  we  took  from  Life, 
And  abundantly  we  gave. 

But  now — there  is   a   stillness  on   the  meadows, 
And  a  coldness  in  the  air — 
How   shall  we  live  now,  Winter?" 

The  Winter: 

"O  little  children  of  the  Summer, 
What  is  this,  that  ye  ask  of  me? 
Is  it  not  enough  that  ye  have  lived  already, 
Not  enough,  that  high  in   Heaven 
The  music  of  your  songs  was  heard, 
That  from  your  nests 
A  joyful  multitude  went  forth? 
Would  ye  exceed  your  destiny, 
And   linger   on   beyond   the   force 
That  made  you? 

My  little  children  of  the  Summer, 
I  am  Oblivion — I  am  Death !" 


Prayers 

The  Masses. — "Give    us    the    spacious    halls,    the    sumptuous 

board, 

The  cars,  the  ships,  the  jewellers'  hoard, 
Each  joy  and  dalliance  gold  can  buy!" 

The  Man.  "Give   me   the   sky !" 

The  Masses. — "Give  us  importance,  power,  titles,  fame, 
Make  ours  the  envied,  flattered  name 
Before  which   crowds   obsequious  bend !" 

The  Man.  "Give  me  a  friend." 

The  M\asses. — "Spare  us  Thy  thunder's  battle  strain, 
Vouchsafe   immunity   from   pain, 
From  clang  of  deathbells  as  they  toll !" 

The  Man.  "Give  me  the  soul !" 


30 


The  Shadow  on  the  Dial 

Beyond  the  shadow  on  the  Dial, 

Alternate  change  of  dawn  and  dusk, 
Shall  we  from  opening  of  flowers 

And  closing  of  their  withered  husk, 

Conceive  the  final  Mystery, 

Inscrutable  to  questionings, 
The  Impulse,  Anguish  or  the  Thought 

Which  moves  and  multiplies  all  things? 

And  shall  our  mind,  which  made  Time's  measure, 

With   what  is   measurelessly  true 
'At  last  be  crowned?    Or  on  the  Dial 

Are  we  but  phantom  shadows  too?  x 


31 


Birth  Throe 

Silence  primeval  in  Time's  folded  coil 
And  Dimness  lay,  unwoken  yet  from  sleep 
Than  Death's  last  slumber  more  profound  and  deep ; 

And  Effort  was  not  yet,  nor  strife  and  broil 

Of  creatures  each  to  each  destroyer  or  spoil, 
And  human  souls  were  not  to  laugh  or  weep 
And  in  the  mirror  of  their  thoughts  to  keep 

The  fragrance  of  all  harvests  of  the  soil, 

Until   Creation's   dream  enflamed   that   night ; 

And  since  the  Silence  dreamt  of  perfect  sound, 
And  Dimness  of  the  dazzling  dawn  of  light, 

The  anguish  of  their  yearning  gathered  round 
Creation.     Now,  in  each  fresh  birth  her  might 

Brings  forth,  the  pain  of  that  first  wound  is  found. 


32 


Retro  Me  Homine 

O   steep   thy  heart    in   roses, 
Thy  soul  in  song  of  birds, 

Forget  all  human  faces, 
Unlearn   all  human  words. 

They  do  but  moan  and  mutter, 

Clubfooted,  reft  of  wing, 
Into  their  own  mud  trampling 

The  bounteousness  of  Spring. 

They    strangle    life   with    phantoms : 
"Thou  shalt  not,  and  thou  must," 

Proclaim  as  law  and  virtue 
Their  twisted  ropes  of  dust. 

Too  high  for  them  thy  Heaven, 

Too  luminous,  too  blue, 
Too  deep  the  well  of  gladness, 

Whereto  thy  yearning  flew. 

Too  wide  thy  breadth  of  vision, 
Thy  hearing  all  too  keen, 

Too  infinite  thy  knowledge, 
Thy  sense  of  things  unseen. 

Thy  liberty  too  dazzling, 

Too  perilous  thy  gains ; 
Slaves,  born  and  bred  in  prison, 

Their  only  faith  is  chains. 

They  make  it  shame  and  sorrow, 
What  should  abound  with  grace — 

The  sound  of  human  voices, 
The  sight   of  human   face. 

From  theirs  thy  paths  be  severed, 
Let  these  stand  thee  for  words : — 

The  fragrance  of  wild  roses, 
The  music  of  wild  birds. 


33 


Nocturne 

The  day  with  all  its  trouble, 

Is  dying  in  the  west, 
E'en  as  a  weary  flower 

The  world  droops  into  rest. 

Great   stars   begin  to   glisten 

And  glimmer  into  sight, 
So  far,  so  faint,  so  perfect, 

Like    dreams   dreamt   in   the   night; 

Like  hope  that  draws  together 
Those  whom  the  world  would  part, 

Like  love  that  longs  and  lingers 
Unuttered  in  the  heart. 


34 


Regret 


O  fragrance  of  dark  violets  that  hung 

An  instant  in  the  air,  O  music  sung 

Beneath  the  stars,  O  hallowed  touch 

Of  human  lips  and  human  hands    of  such 

Surpassing  loveliness,  until  there  rose, 

From  off  the  road  of  life,  the  dust   which  blows 

On  all  that's  sweet;    the  dust  which  spares  but  set, 

Stern  task  and  no  companion  but  regret. 


35 


Cui  Bono 

What  is  toil 

From    gains    forbidden  ? 
What  is  day, 

From  which  is  hidden 
Light? 

What  is  hope 

In  worlds  unbettered? 
What  is  patience 

Roughly  fettered 
To  Despair? 

What  is  sleep 

By  dreams  forsaken? 

What  is  life 
From  which  is  taken 
Love? 


36 


For  a  Little 

0  come  and  tarry  by  my  fireside, 
The  evenings  are  long  and  grey — 

Thy  voice  is  music  in  the  twilight, 
O  for  a  little,  come  and  stay! 

1  have  been  sad  and  passing  weary 

All  through  the  hard,  the  lonely  day — 
Thy  hand  is  soothing  in  the  twilight, 
O  for  a  little,  come  and  stay! 

There  is  a  world,  the  world  knows  nought  of, 

Beyond  its  envy  hid  away — 
Deep  in  the  silence  of  the  twilight, 

O  my  beloved,  come  and  stay! 


37 


Among  the  Flowers 


Among  the  flowers  of  the  summer, 
When  first  thy  face  appeared  to  me, 

Through   all   the   dreaminess   of   summer, 
Among  the  flowers,  I  yearned  for  thee. 

Among  the  thorns    which  Fate  and  hardness 
Of  thine  own  heart  'twixt  thee  and  me 

Still  scattered    for  my  feet  to  bleed  on, 
Among  the  thorns,  I  lived  for  thee. 

Below  the  moss,  the  moss  untrodden, 
When  I  am  nothing  more  to  thee, 

I  shall  be  healed  in  dreamless  slumber 
From  all  the  wounds  thou  gavest  me. 


38 


Star  Song 

Far,  so  far, 
Lonely  star, 
Hidden  half 
In  a  cloud, 
Cloud  as  heavy 
As  a  shroud. 

Far,  so  far, 
Beauteous  star 
Of  the  evening 
Of   my   days, 
All  thy  rays 
Hidden  quite 
Out  of  sight 
In  the  loneliness 
Of  night. 

Wilt  thou  come 

Once  again, 
Sweet  as  sunshine 
After  rain? 
Bright  as  gleams 
Through  my  dreams 
In  the  loneliness 

Of  night 

The  remembrance 

Of  thy  light, 
Star,  my  star, 

Now  so  far? 


39 


The  Last  Trek 

Strike  camp  now  boys,  pack  what  biltong  is  left, 

Load  up  the  waggon ;  inspan  the  team,  trek 

To  the  North;  you'll  find  the  gold  yet.     I  stop  here, 

I'm  too  done  now  to  ride;  the  jolt  in  the  waggon 

Finished  me  up.     Ye'd  wait?     Our  stock's  too  low. 

Leave  me;  'tis  best.     I  know  what  'tis  to  be  tied 

To  deadweights.     Curse  the  whole  lot.     I'll  not  pay 

This  dirty  world  back  in  its  own  base  coin. 

There's  a  hell  of  pride  ablaze  in  me  yet.     I  lived 

Alone;  alone  I  shall  die.     Drop  it,  your  pity. 

Human  pity's  too  close  to  contempt,  Death 

Ain't  so  dreadful  looked  square  in  the  eye;  the  last 

Pons  Asinorum  we've  all  got  to  cross. 

I'm  all  right.     But  ye  might  just  hitch   up  that  blanket 

A  bit,  and  shift  the  pillow;  my  neck's  kind 

Of  cricked.    Here,  take  my  watch — I've  done  with  time. 

My  money,  too — Don't  spend  it  in  drink.    Then  leave 

Me  here  beneath  the  sky,  so  cool  now,  so  calm, 

He  almost  seems  kind.     And  His  stars  and  I 

We'll  have  our  last  palaver  out.     Lor,  how 

They  lied !     Don't  they  twinkle  like  rogues  ?     Maybe 

My   bearings  were   out ;   still   I   swear,  that  they  vowed, 

If  only  I  always  stuck  to  their  lead, 

They'd  surely  land  me  in  Paradise.     .     .     .     They  sink, 

And  I — well  two  hours  still  at  most ;  a  lame 

Flat  end  to  a  thirty  years'  trek.     Not  even 

A  grave.     You  mustn't  wait  to  shovel  me  in. 

The  birds  can  have  me ;   they  get  hungry  too. 

To  the  last,  I'd  turn  my  eyes  to  the  light.     I'll  get 

My  fill  of  the  dark,  had  darkness  enough. 

The  hells  I've  been  through,  the  worries,  the  cares ! 

How  I  groused  and  cursed,  prayed  to  Devils  and  Gods 

I  didn't  believe  in !     It  let  off  steam, 

Was  useful  at  that.     Helped?     Not  much.     Luck  helps. 

I   used  to  fancy  work  did,  honesty, 

Patience,  all  that  copybook  stuff.     It  does — 

For  some.     Some  fellows  score   before  they've  bowled. 

I  lose  my  wicket  for  scarcely  a  run, 

The  bowling  and  batting  ain't  twice  just  alike, 

The  rules,  too,  differ  in  every  man's  game. 

That  makes  it  so  hard.     Still  a  hard  game's  good, 

If  only  the   Umpire   always   were    fair. 

He  is?     Bosh.     Wait  and  play  your  deadlevel  best 

Through  the  blazing  noon,  then  find  yourself  stumped 

By  the  cowardly  lie  of  a  blackguardy  cur — 

Grousing,  eh?     Kind  of  foolish  now,  when  all's 


40 


\ 


Too  late.     Ah  well — it  eased  the  pain  in  the  chest 

Awhile.     I   won't   deny  I   scored   some  too ; 

Had  some  rattling  good  times,  got  Kudos  and  fun: 

Life's  grand  at  its  worst.     Size  up  evil  and  good, 

They're  plentiful  both  and  much  more  akin 

Than  parsons'd  say.     I've  sampled  most  things,  fruit 

Forbidden  and  lawful :  there's  wormwood  in  both, 

And  ashes  at  last.     That's  why  I  went  under? 

Rot.     Look   at  that  Jew   swine.     He's   a   success. 

He  forged,  embezzled,  starved  his  brother  to  death, 

A  wrong  'un  right  through ;    yet  his  wife's  a  shop 

Of  Kimberly  ware,  his  mistresses  too. 

He'll  soon  be  a  lord.    I  worked — I  am  here.     Luck, 

That's  it.     Fate's  cruel?     No.     Just  fond  of  gamblin' 

With  loaded  dice,  and  the  Boss  of  the  show, 

How  he  must  laugh  when  a  puppet's  heartstring  sudden 

Goes  fut.     Broken  hearts  not  the  fashion?     That's  so, 

But  courage  run  dry,  sheer  physical  strength 

Used  up  in  the  fight,  pride  and  trust  in  one's  work 

Clean   gone,   that   ain't   played   out,   that's   brought  me   here 

Low  in  the  thorns  and  dust  of  the  veldt.     What,  grousing 

Again?     Give  us  a  drop  then.     Here's  to  you  boys, 

Good  luck,  good  luck.     That's  all  there's  in  it: 

'Twent  against  me  badly,  but  who  cares  now? 

Exceptin'  the  vultures — They'll  find  so  little 

To  pick  off  my  bones.     Hallo — there's  the  dawn : 

Twelve  miles  to  cover    before  it  gets  hot. 

Time  ye  were  off.     Good  bye,  shake  hands,  though  hands 

Mean  little  to  me,  since  the  one  small  hand 

I  worshipped  like  God,  slipped  from  my  grasp  and  wounded 

Me  most.     What  story's  that?     A  secret?     Yes. 

'Twill  die  with  me,  as  a  secret  should.     But  you 

Are  friends.     True,  capital  friends,  still  there  was 

An  hunger  in  me  you  couldn't  feed,  a  scar, 

The  kindest  touch  would  startle  to  pain.     And  so 

It's  best  as  it  is.     It's  all  for  the  best. 

Any  message  to  send?    No,  I'll  not  bother 

A  soul.    Death  comes  to  all — life's  last  little  joke, 

A  good  one  perhaps.     I'll  know  pretty  soon, 

That's  something — only — only — if  I  could 

First  have  done    what  'twas  in  me  to  do. — Bad  luck. 


41 


ASTRA 


Catholicity 

I  worship  in  a  temple  of  a  thousand  shrines; 
Unto  its  portals  lead  a  thousand  roads, 
And  at  the  passing  of  a  thousand  winds 
A  thousand  bells  of  gold  begin  to  chime. 

There  are  a  thousand  gods  upon  the  altars 

Veiled  with  a  thousand  shades  and  lights,  adored 

By  murmur  of  a  thousand  prayers    couched 

In  a  thousand  modes  of  speech.    A  thousand  clouds 

Of  incense  from  a  thousand  silver  censers 

Swung  from  a  thousand  silver  chains,  float  round 

Them,  and  a  thousand  candles  burn.     Yet  are 

They  all  one  God,  my  God,  sometimes  so  close, 

He  seems  myself;  so  far  again,  the  faint 

Trail  of  the  Milky  Way  might  be  the  breathing 

Of  His  mouth.     He  has  received  a  thousand  names, 

Yet  is  He  nameless;  a  thousand  shapes,  yet  hath 

He  none.    He  is  the  shadow  of  a  dream, 

The  glamor  of  a  rainbow  on  the  void, 

The  elusiveness  of  music,  breath  profound 

Of  inspiration,  fugitive  delight 

Of  peace,  whisper  of  infinitude,  Man's 

Apotheosis !    And  lo — He  is  the  yearning 

Of  the  dreamer,  the  anguish  of  the  unattained, 

The  hunger  and  the  sorrow  of  the  soul. 

I  worship  in  a  temple  of  a  thousand  shrines, 
Unto  its  portals  lead  a  thousand  roads, 
And  at  the  passing  of  a  thousand  winds 
A  thousand  bells  of  gold  begin  to  chime. 


45 


The  Solitary  Column  of  Karnak 

Lotus-crowned  pillar !  since  thy  leaves  of  stone 

Were  by  an  ancient  sculptor  raised  on  high, 

Into  thy  calyx  gazed  no  mortal  eye : 

Celestial  orbs'  undying  rays  alone 

Now  touch  and  gild  thee,  even  like  a  throne, 

From  which  the  sad-browed  queen — pale  Memory — 

Speaks  to  the  constellations  of  the  sky 

Of  things  they  shone  upon — great  things   unknown 

To  all  but  them  and  thee,  proud  shaft ! — Spell-bound 

I  linger  near  thee,  till  that  symphony 

Thou  pourest  forth,  that  music — where  the  sound 

Of  old  Egyptian  glories  passed  away 

With  yesterday's  warm  breath  is  interwound, — 

Thrills  through  my  soul  in  mystic  harmony. 


46 


The  Central  Altar  in  the  Temple  of  Heaven, 
Peking 

Enduring  verdure  of  tall  cypress-tree, 
Glazed  lazuli  of  lustrous  tiles  deep  wrought 
Magnificence  of  alabasters  brought 
Together  in  concentric  rows  of  three 
Complete  the  glorious  altar,  wide  and  free 
To  every  grandeur  of  the  sky,  with  nought 
Of  roof  or  pillar  to  imprison  thought 
As  upwards  it  exults,  O  Heaven,  to  Thee. 

No  dogma  cult,  no  reverence  of  fear, 

No  graven  image,  no  unworthy  tear, 

Insight  alone  of  him    who  is  a  seer 

Is  suffered  to  officiate  at  this  shrine 

Whose  perfect  harmony  of  light  and  line 

Creates  on  Earth,  through  Earth,  the  Soul  Divine. 


47 


An  Atlantic  Liner 

Water   destroys  man,   space  wearies  his  feet; 
Yet  space  and  water  his  mastery  feel 
O'erborne,  overruled  by  swift  forefoot  and  keel 
Of  the  moving  ship    in  whose  engine  room  meet 
Propeller  and  piston,  bolt,  rod,  shaft  and  wheel, 
Giant  anatomy  moulded  in  steel 
With  heart  of  fire  and  pulsation  of  heat. 

Man's  work  alone !     His  the  brain  cell  to  scheme, 
The  supple  hand  to  embody  the  dream, 
The  will  no  peril  unconquered  to  leave, 
Through  all  resistances  progress  to  cleave, 
Dead  weight  of  iron,  evanescence  of  steam 
Curbed  and  compelled  his  behests  to  achieve. 


48 


Mount  Everest 

Alone,  alone,  deep-cushioned  in  the  sky, 

The  long  waves  of  Infinitude  forever 

Eddying  around  his  brow,  the  height  supreme 

Of  circling  Earth    in  wide  elliptic  curve 

Is  swung  through  boundless  space.     He,  first  to  seize 

The  quivering  radiations   flushed  and  flung 

From  that  great  cup  of  throbbing  gold    which  brims 

To  overflowing  with  the  intoxicating  wine 

Of  light — the  glorious  Sun.     He,  last  to  plunge 

Away  from  Day's  transcendent  crimson  down 

Into  the  liquid  lazuli  of  Night; 

There  to  commune  unseen  with  magnetisms 

In  threads  invisible  spun  from  the  stars ; 

The  Chariot  wheels  above  him,  meteors  flash 

Their  instant  triumph  past  him  through  the  void; 

Oceans  waft  their  longing  towards  him,  dank  trails 

Of  moisture  poised,  precipitated  round 

His  crags  in  crystals  of  pellucid  snow. 

They  cling  to  him,  a  crown  of  royal  splendour, 

Until  the  hungerpower  of  the  deep 

Drags  them  reluctant  down  with  muttered  roar 

Of  avalanche.     Spring  comes  not  unto  him 

Nor  summer.     Unbroken  has  he  kept  his  faith 

To  Winter  of  remotest  time.     The  fierce, 

Keen  cold  of  the  abyss  has  bitten  hard 

Into  his  heart.     No  life,  as  we  know  life, 

Invades  his  peace;  but  for  the  whirl  of  wind 

And  cloud  all  motion  here  were  petrified. 

And  yet — when  silver  radiance  of  the  moon 

Impinges  on  the  glimmering  ice  and  quartz, 

Who  knows  but  that  the  mountain-summit's  soul 

Yearns  not  across  the  ether — dreaming,  e'en 

As  all  those  silent  things  which  we  call  dead, 

In  their  stupendous  loneliness  may  dream? 


49 


The  Desert 

Huge  Desert,  parched  thy  saiyl-drifts,  and  thy  stones 

Unfruitful ;    the  secrets  of  beginnings,  sad 

With  silences  of  ends,  are  sealed  within 

Thy  soul.     Waste  thou  art  called  and  useless  dust, 

Because  thy  void  to  man's  voraciousness 

No  harvest  yields  but  pang  of  hunger,  craze 

Of  thirst.     Them  only  hast  triumphantly 

Withstood  the  foul  pollution  of  his  yoke 

Wherewith  the  earth  is  seared,  till  all  her  streams 

Must  turn  his  wheels,  her  quarried  mountains  bleed 

Their  ore,  her  forests  fall  to  roof  his  hut. 

But  thou,  O  desert,  art  the  watcher  calm, 

And  final'  overwhelmer  of  his  pride. 

Thy  sombre  strength  is  like  unto  the  strength 

Of  ultimate  foundations.     The  burn  and  blaze 

Of  every  sunbeam  of  the  day  thou  takest, 

And  all  the  stinging  iciness  of  night, 

Untempered,  unalloyed  by  veil  of  cloud 

Or  verdure,  naked,  proud,  fierce,  unafraid, 

Hard  to  the  very  core  of  thee.     The  wind 

Alone,  whose  wings,  beyond  the  rolling  globe, 

Sweep  the  abysmal  ether,  may  breathe  on  thee, 

And  mould  the  surface  motion  of  thy  sands; 

But  his  force,  too, 'sinks  broken  on  thine  heart 

Unbreakable.     So  deeply  hast  thou  drunk 

Of  death,  forever  now  thou  art  immune. 

Change,  keenest  despot  of  Creation,  deals 

Not  with  thee,  and  his  relentless  ally,  Time, 

Halts  on  the  threshold  of  thy  realm.     Great  Kings 

Of  old  in  thee  have  raised  their  sepulture, 

And  Empire-builders  of  to-day,  near  thee 

Have  craved  to  rest  their  bones.     Thou  mighty  One, 

Well-nigh  eternal  and  immutable, 

Home  of  the  hermit,  healer  of  the  mind 

Sore  with  the  pettiness  of  human  aims, 

Mine,  where  the  iron  for  the  sure  destruction 

Of  lying  values  of  the  crowd,  has  been 

And  ever  shall  be  forged ;  thou  simple  One, 

Light  thy  sole  ornament,   and   Space,   dread  symbol 

Of  Infinity,  lifeless,  loveless,  lone 

And  free ;  profoundest  Dreamer  of  the  far 

To-morrow,  of  long  forgotten  yesterdays, 

Art  thou  but  soulless  sand,  or  that  strange  thing 

Inscrutable  and  unknown  still,  where  matter 

With  seed  of  spirit-strength  so  teems,  the  two 

Seem  one,  the  spirit — child  of  matter,  matter — 

The  mother,  patient  with  a  wayward  child? 

50 


The  Rain  Cloud 

With  all  the  jewelry  of  rainbows  girt, 

Borne  sheer  above  huge  mountains  on  the  wings 

Of  western  winds,  the  cloud  sheds  down  its  wealth 

Of  moisture  on  the  parched,  the  famished  soil : 

And  lo  the  glory  of  the  rainbow  melts, 

The  very  being  of  the  fruitful  cloud 

Dies, '  dissolved,   destroyed,   devoured  by  that  great  deed 

Of  bounty,  nourishing  the  famished  soil. 


51 


The  Sunset  Cloud 

Thou  great  and  mellow  evening  cloud,  uplifted 

Into  effulgence  of  the  Sun,  wast  thou 

The  swiftly  speeding  surface  of  some  strong 

And    restless    stream,    the    storm-tossed    foam    of   wild 

Salt  seas,  the  smoothly  silent  mirror 

Of  silver  willows  round  a  pond?     Aflame 

Now,  kindled  into  ecstasy  of  light, 

For  one  supreme  and  perfect  consummation 

No  more  a  cloud ;  a  dazzling  incandescence, 

A  burning  aureole  of  gold. 

And  then, 

When  night  extinguishes  thy  splendour,  Earth 
Will  draw  thee  back  to  her  dark  heart  as  dew, 
And  through  the  heaviness  of  shadows  thou 
Wilt  whisper  echoes  of  thine  hour  of  gold. 


52 


Sanctuary 

O  gold  of  all  the  sunsets  spilt,  since  Earth 

Has  first  been  sung  to  sleep;  O  silver  stream 

Of  all  the  moons  in  midnight  memories 

Enshrined ;  O  sweetness  of  the  almond  blossom 

Swaying  in  the  azure  sky;    O  warmth  benign 

Of  the  comradeship  of  friends,  ye  are  my  home, 

My   happiness,    my  peace ;    the   flame,   the    fragrance 

And  the  flower  in  the  dimness  of  the  world, 

The  sanctuary  across  whose  threshold    hate 

And  anger  may  not  pass,  where  Joy  alone 

Spreads  wide  the  beauteous  rapture  of  its  wings ; 

Where  obscure  yearnings  of  creation  swell 

Into  majesty  of  thought;  where  all  that  seemed 

So  separate,  grows  one,  and  all  that  seemed 

So  mortal — a  symbol  of  Eternal  Life. 


53 


Resurrection 

They  troubled  the  earth  a  little, 

To  hide  a  coffin  away, 
And  sorrow  wept  there  a  little, 

Then  passed  and  faded  away. 

Now    Earth    is    splendid    with    sunshine, 
And  strength  and  sweetness  of  spring, 

From  depths  of  her  in  the  sunshine 
Soft  grass  and  violets  spring 

Yea  everywhere  through  the  sunshine 

The  resurrection  of  life, 
Even  where  they  hid  from  the  sunshine 

The  pitiful  waste  of  a  life. 


Evolution 

Afar  on  the  western  horizon 

Over  fragrance  of  harvest-clad  fields, 
The  sun  his  last  flashing  of  crimson 

In  passionate  ecstasy  yields. 
Darkness  and  dimness  thicken, 

But  beyond  the  shadow — behold, 
Effulgence  of  worlds  without  ending, 

The  Universe  fashioned  in  gold. 

Great  worlds    which   are  long  extinguished, 

And    worlds  which  labour  to  grow 
From  vortex  of  nebular  radiance, 

Coalesce  in  one  quivering  glow, 
Reveal   w^hat  cannot  be  fathomed, 

Dimensions  thought  cannot  attain, 
And     distances  wherein  all  measures 

Of  human  experience  fall  vain; 

Where  Time  is  felt  to  be  nothing 

But  Eternity  as   it  revolves, 
And  Space  the  limit  that  ever 

In   the   limitless   dies   and   dissolves; 
Where  all  that  we  deem  so  sure 

Of  verdicts  of  evil  and  right, 
The  standards  and  flags  multi-coloured 
Round  which  we  struggle  and  fight; 

Shrink  to  fables  stammered  by  children, 

And  Heaven  itself  seems  a  sigh 
Of  weariness,  far  too  mortal 

To  span  that  splendour  on  high, 
That  Power,  which  riots  and  revels 

In  restlessness,  struggle  and  strife, 
Whose  Nadir  is  death  and  destruction, 

Whose  Zenith  is  Progress  and  Life. 


55 


Benedicite  Ver 

The  Spring,  the  Spring ! 
Bless  ye  the  Spring ! 
His  breath  is  Beauty, 
His  lips  are  Love, 
His  eyes  a  Glory 
A  blessing  his  hands, 

Fruitfulness  marketh  the  path  of  his  feet. 
Spring  is  a  poem  written  by  God, 
His  bounty's  apocalypse, 
The   heavenly  harmony  angels   sing, 
The  angels  who  dwell  in  the  heart  of  all  things, 
The  angels,  who  render  this  earth  so  fair, — 
Bless,  bless  ye  the  Spring ! 


56 


Spring 

Fling  to  me  violets, 

Bring  to  me  May, 

Cling  to  me  sunshine, 

Sing  to  me  birds, 

Ring  to  me  royally  blue-bell  chime 

Spring !    I  am  Spring  !     the  life  kindling  time  ! 


57 


Birds 

By  the  brink  of  the  lake, 

Where  leaves  are  so  green, 
And  the  sky  and  its  blueness 
Can  scarcely  be  seen, 

The  birds  are  calling,  are  calling. 

Over  waters  asleep, 
Just  rippled  by  leap 

And  silverswift  splash 

Of  fishes  which  flash, 

The  birds  are  calling,  are  calling. 

Twixt  grasses  of  summer, 

From  flower  to  flower, 
Through  golden  green  twilight 

Of  drowsy  noon-hour, 

The  birds  are  calling,  are  calling. 

In  thicket  half-hidden, 

On  branches  on  high, 
With   bright-coloured   wing 

Spread  wide  'gainst  the  sky, 

The  birds  are  calling,  are  calling. 

And  surely  thou  knowest 

The  sweet  sounding  name 
My  lips  in  soft  cadence 

To  their  love  song  would  frame, 

As  the  birds  are  calling,  are  calling. 


58 


Summer  Harvest 

It  rose  the  first  promise  of  springtide, 
It  grew  with  the  growth  of  the  days, 

It  gathered  into  its  greenness 
All  the  gold  and  the  glory  of  rays; 

It  rippled  in  glittering  sparkles 
With  the  laughing  gladness  of  light; 

It  breathed  in  tremulous  whispers 
'Neath  the  passionate  darkness  of  night; 

It  fed  on  the  heat  of  the  sunshine ; 

It  drank  of  the  coolness  of  rain, 
And  now  it  is  cut  down  and  gathered — 

The  straw  and  the  chaff  and  the  grain; 

It  is  piled  up  in  tall  sheaves  of  plenty, 
The   wage   wherewith    Summer  and   soil 

Reward  in  bounteous  profusion 
The  sweat  of  the  labourer's  toil. 

And  I  who  have  toiled  not  nor  laboured, 
Who  idled  through  long  summer  days, 

Who  breathed  the  scent  of  wild  flowers 
Who  roamed  over  untrodden  ways, 

Who  tasted  strange  fruit,  sweet  and  bitter; 

Who  have  culled  so  much  pleasure  and  pain, 
Now  'tis  come  the  time  of  the  harvest: 

I  must  count  the  loss  and  the  gain. 

The  Reckoning  Angel  is  standing 
Where  autumn  mists  cover  my  path ; 

Will  the  depths  of  his  eyes  smile  in  favour, 
Or  frown  upon  me  in  wrath? 

Is  there  aught  in  my  hands  save  the  stubble 
And  chaff  to  be  burnt  into  dust? 

Have  I  gathered  but  worldly  treasure 
For  the  thief,  and  the  moth  and  the  rust? 

Nay!    Behold  of  these  it  is  empty, 
My  summerdays'  harvested  store; 

I  have  reaped  a  heavenly  treasure — 
The  soul  of  one  friendship  the  more ! 


59 


Sic  Transit 

Just  a  falling  to  seed  among  flowers, 

A  tinge  of  gold  in  the  leaves, 
And  the  wheat,  where  the  warm  winds  rippled, 

Gathered  up  into  motionless  sheaves. 

Just   a   darkening  of   the   shadows, 

A  gradual  waning  of  light, 
A  deepening  and  a  prolonging 

Of  the  exquisite  coolness  of  night ; 

Just  a  lingering  in  soft  hollows 

Of  the  diamond  sparkle  of  dew, 
A  pearly  and  delicate  veiling 

Of  the  luminousness  of  the  blue. 

The  summer  seems  sweeter  than  ever, 
Thus  pierced  with  the  sting  of  decay, 

If  Death  is  always  so  tender, 

Why  murmur  when  passing  away? 


60 


Though  It  Be  Death 

Sheer  on  the  snow  exultant  day : 
Beneath  the  ardor  of  his  breath, 

To  sparkle  like  the  sun's  own  ray 
Is  it  not  joy  though  it  be  death? 

Thus  on  my  mouth  thy  lips'  strong  seal 
Beneath  the  fervor  of  thy  breath 

The  loss  of  my  whole  soul  to  feel, 
Is  it  not  life  though  it  be  death? 


61 


To  a  Young  Girl 

Red  the  bright  beads  of  thy  necklace, 

Red  the  tissue  of  thy  dress 
Red  thy  cheek's  and  mouth's  soft  outline, 

White  thy  maiden  loneliness. 

Red  the  flicker  of  the  firelight, 
Where  midst  dancing  of  the  flame, 

And  faint  dropping  of  the  embers, 
Thou  dost  read  the  far  one's  name; 

Where  thine  eyes  aglow  with  laughter 
Of  the  child    unused  to  fears, 

Darkening  though  with  dim  foreboding 
Of  the  woman's  bitter  tears, 

Seem  to  see  with  keener  brightness 
Than  the  keen  delight  and  strife 

Of  red  flametongues  round  the  firewood, 
Red  the  reddest  rose  of  life. 

And  a  wonder  steals  upon  thee, 

And  a  yearning  and  a  dread 
Lest  some  day  between  thy  fingers 

It  should  lie  discrowned  and  dead, 

Lest  of  all  its  wealth  of  fragrance, 

All  its  promise,  all  its  lure, 
Some  day  nothing  but  the  sorrow 

And  the  heartache  should  endure. 

Fear  not  child :  Love's  root  lies  deeper 
Than  the  flowering  of  one  May, 

Something  to  thy  soul  is  added 
For  each  petal  blown  away. 

Thou  art  one  of  those  who  kindle, 
From  the  dawning  of  their  birth, 

With  the  joyfulness  of  beauty 
All  the  misery  of  earth; 

Who  from  height  of  their  ideals 
Heaven's  glory  round  us  shed: 

White  thy  gentle  soul  forever, 
Red  thy  soft  lips,  warm  and  red. 


62 


To  Ruth 

Could  I  pluck  from  the  sun  its  heart  of  gold, 
From  virgin  mines   their  treasures   untold, 
And  then  in  figurings  lavish  and  bold 
Upon  the  canvas  glowing  unfold 
This  magic  wealth,  would  it  half  be  told 
With  all  the  splendour  and  radiance  there, 
Wherein  amber,  ruby  and  topaz  share, 
The   exquisite   sheen   of  thine   auburn   hair? 


63 


Immortality 


I  dreamed  I  had  been  dead  a  thousand  years, 

And  that  the  wastage  of  a  thousand  years 

Had  been  piled  up  upon  my  grave.     The  leaves 

And  grasses  of  a  thousand  summers    had  drawn 

The  sweetness  from  the  upper  air,  and  down 

Through  mellow  transformations  they  had  drifted 

To    nourish    roots    of   trees    struck    straight    through    mould 

And  mildew  of  my  sunken  coffin-lid, 

The  coffin  planks  disjoined,  dissolved,  dropped  back 

To  dimness  inorganic.     All  my  bones 

Denuded  from  the  ligaments  of  flesh 

But  crumbling  heaps  of  bloodless  dust.     I  was 

No  more  a  thing  apart,  but  soil  of  soil 

And  clay  of  clay,  absorbed,  and  yet  endowed 

With   wondrous   senses,   seeing,   without  eyes 

In  darkness,  hearing  without  ears,  in  silence, 

Feeling  without  hands,  in  isolation. 

Being  wholly  dead,  I  was  immortal.     Change, 

Decay,  disintegration,  phantoms  pale 

Of  dream-lost  days ;  the  prison  consciousness 

Of  self  with  putrefaction  of  the  flesh 

Destroyed ;  the  unfolding  of  Eternity 

Through  Time  thenceforth  my  sole  pulsation ;  peace 

Of  knowledge  absolute,  my  only  thought ; 

The  might  and  dark  magnificence  of  that 

Whereon  destruction  dies,  my  godlike  soul ! 

I  dreamed  I  had  been  dead  a  thousand  years 
And  that  the  harvests  of  a  thousand  years 
Had  weighed  and  slowly  wasted  on  my  grave. 


64 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


m  L9-42wi-8,'49(B5573)444 


PS      Grantham  - 
3513    Per  aspera  ad 
G7G75p astra. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FAC 


A  000  925  222 


PS 

3513 

G7675p 


